Sharing umbrellas leads to other things
by sarakirai
Summary: Seo, the rain, and Waka. [moving from AO3]


Someone's in a little funk because of the rain today.

Yuzuki's been waiting for a while in the school building, having had to stay behind after class for day duty, but the rain has continued to fall without any sign of lessening. It's a good thing she brought her umbrella with her today, she thinks, sliding it open until she hears the click of the locking mechanism. She then proceeds to stand there for a full five minutes, holding an open umbrella in the middle of the corridor. There's no one to stare, anyway, because the whole building's empty and quiet, filled with the soft echoes of pattering rain in lieu of the pattering of feet.

She can't explain this sudden feeling that engulfs her, this something that tells her she doesn't want to make good use of her umbrella and just go home already. For some reason, she'd like to stay; either here, watching the rain, or wildly running through it. Maybe even hazard a dance on the rooftop, spinning over smooth concrete and iron railings made slick by fat droplets of rain. She can feel the wind whipping down the passageways from outside and whispering her name insistently Seo, Seo; besides bringing slips of half-dead leaves and petals along – the distinctive scent of rain, too. Her senses are sharpened, and she inhales deeply, taking a step forward.

What to do about her umbrella, though? Perhaps she should just leave it in the rack in the foyer, for someone else to pick up. Because she doesn't want to take it home. She can't she can't she can't. Silly rule, but she'll follow it. It feels right. She's about to close the brolly and walk over there to deposit it, when she spots the odd pair sitting on the steps and half-heartedly bemoaning their lack of an umbrella. Sakura looks more anxious over being in close company with her crush than not being able to get home, while Nozaki has his usual deadpan mask on – Yuzuki looks from her her umbrella to the couple and back three times.

Nods firmly. Pulls up the corners of her mouth. And breaks into a sprint.

Chucking the umbrella over Sakura's shoulder is the work of a moment, and she employs her trademark obnoxious cackle to cover the sound of any questions or squeaks of surprise from the lucky recipient (though the pounding of the rain and her genuine yelps at the chill are more than good enough for that purpose) as she clutches her satchel over her head. It's _fun_, she thinks, fun and freeing, to run in the rain like this. Funny how when people are kids, they don't really appreciate the sheer license they have to do things: most anything they do is chalked up to them being "still young" and it's all good because "they'll learn", so they should "have fun while they can". And it's true. When you're a kid running in the rain is cute and adorable and everyone loves the sight of your mussed up hair; when you're a high school student running in the rain is stupid and dangerous and you could get pneumonia, and excuse me miss I can see your underwear through your wet shirt could you please be more mindful of yourself? Things like that.

All these things run through her mind as she pounds along the pavement, getting utterly soaked. She watches the polka-dot pattern the water forms as it drenches, bit by bit, the fabric of her uniform. She feels a little heavier. Her loafers slosh a little too, and she thinks _I'm glad I don't wear socks_. You know what, maybe her bag is drenched enough by this point, too, that she can tell the teacher she didn't do her homework because the sheets of paper disintegrated completely from exposure to the rain. The rain slicks her bangs onto her forehead and it's hard to see. Damn it, it's _cold_. Her eyes dart around the streets, looking for shelter – everywhere is building fronts blanketed in misty grey, the few people out and about huddled under uniformly dull umbrellas.

But she's unceremoniously jolted from her musings when her right foot catches on something and she falls forward ungracefully, arms flailing in a futile attempt to regain her balance. Yuzuki can hear a muffled thud as she pitches head first into a wall of something warm and solid – a person's back. A boy's back. A high school boy's back, to be exact, and one from her own school too. She squints at the guy's schoolbag to try and read off the name tag -

_Good lord, it's Wakamatsu_.

_Wakamatsu Hirotaka_, that's what the tag reads. Yuzuki rolls the words in her mouth quietly and shoves the thought of saying hi or apologizing (1. For bumping into him and getting him a little wet 2. For hitting the back of his neck rather painfully with her satchel) away for the moment – this rain is making her go funny, in any case – so she can focus on the sensation of his knit cardigan scratching against her nose and cheek, or the subtle tensing of his muscles that indicate he's holding his breath and about to turn and glance over his shoulder. She thumps her forehead against his broad back and sighs dramatically before he can beat her to it.

"Hey, Waka."

He'd recognise that voice anywhere (except if it was singing), though he's not sure if he likes its quality now. It's dangerously detached, playful, and a little challenging. And he doesn't know what he can say that she'd like to hear in response, but a little sound slips out before he can catch it.

"Oh," and just at that he flushes (quite becomingly, it must be said), red blooming slowly over his cheeks, a flower in the rain. One she wants to pluck and press between the pages of a book, turn into a special keepsake. There's a pregnant pause.

"Seo-senpai," he continues, and she _drinks_ in the lilt of his voice, "are you alright?"

A muffled grunt is her only reply.

She hums distractedly as he turns to shield her under his umbrella too, bringing her bag down to rest at her side as she raises her eyes to his with every appearance of sincere gratitude. But when she opens her mouth what is blurted out isn't a "thank you" but – surprise, surprise – a "you smell nice" instead. He stutters out that she shouldn't be saying things like that when there are more pressing issues at hand. His averted eyes and pink-tipped ears alert her to the fact that he's referring to her uniform, near-transparent and clinging damply to her curves. She doesn't have a spare shirt, though, so Waka thinks it through for all of five seconds before handing over his cardigan (and that takes a fair bit of juggling) while trying not to think of shoujo manga parallels and the erratic pounding of his heart.

Yuzuki snorts as she buttons the cardigan up, experimentally flapping the slightly-too-long sleeves about. _I feel like a first year again._

She jumps in a puddle on purpose and grins toothily at him when he grimaces. He exhales wearily and hangs his head, then tugs on her sleeve and tells her to hurry up or they'll never reach the train station this way, shepherding her along the sidewalk with an arm over her shoulders.

If either of them thinks that they look like a couple on the train ride home, they don't say a word.

The rain doesn't let up one bit until late evening, so Wakamatsu obligingly offers to escort his senpai home. Yuzuki's mom is pleasantly surprised to see someone other than Chiyo-chan with her daughter, whose social and communicative deficiencies she is well aware of, and welcomes him in most graciously. Wakamatsu politely accepts the cup of hot tea, as well as the fact that he won't be able to leave with his cardigan, since Seo-senpai's mother already chucked it into the laundry pile and insisted on laundering it for him. It sits there, casually draping over the rest of Yuzuki's wet uniform and underwear, and he can't help but think of domesticity and all else that mixed laundry implies. He ducks to hide his blush, but she sees it anyway, and leans over to mess his hair up with that intolerable smirk on her lips. He lets her.

It's only almost a week later that she finally remembers to return his cardigan, and she chooses to hand it over when they're getting warmed up for basketball practice. _He curses her timing, but when else, really? She's always late in the morning, and to be called out at lunch raises suspicions, and they're in different years anyway so oh well._

"Waka – here. Thanks."

"No problem."

He accepts the sloppily folded garment with a straight face, and everyone narrows their eyes at the exchange. The combined weight of a crowd's gaze is a very noticeable thing. When Wakamatsu tilts his head to the side and smiles uncertainly, no one meets his gaze. Everyone shuffles back to what they were doing. And that's the end of it; really, just that one day when Seo-senpai drags him out to a family restaurant after school (again) (though it's not like he had plans anyway) she injects into the conversation a total non sequitur, dredged up from memories of that trip home together.

"You know, I think 'Waka' sounds much better than 'Hirotaka'. Don't you?"

"No comment," Wakamatsu says, colouring instantly, as he shoves a spoonful of his parfait into her mouth to shut her up.

It works.


End file.
